By the time her sisters had finished, there was not a single man left alive. Those who met their fate in the shallows had toppled and crashed down, fragments of their features now shingle on the seafloor. Others had met their demise on the boat, their increased weight causing the bow to sink down. Another storm and the wreckage would be unsalvageable. Medusa sat on the shore until the sun splintered across the horizon.
When she returned to her cave, her sisters were curled up. Their feathered wings swept around their bodies, blankets for their broken souls. The sadness in Medusa’s own cemented as she noticed that, for the first time since they had been reunited, Stheno slept with a smile upon her face.
Chapter 15
King Acrisius of Argos paced the throne room. His hand trembled, and the air in his lungs stabbed sharply beneath his ribs. At his feet, the child giggled. He recoiled at the sound. His wife, Eurydice, in turn, recoiled only at him.
‘What else can I do?’ He spoke to his wife. ‘Death would be best. Now, while she is young. Our memories of her are precious and untainted. Surely it would be gracious to remember her in that manner?’
‘Gracious? Is your mind addled?’
Eurydice rose from her seat, the anger glowing in her cheeks. She lifted the child from the ground and handed her to the nursemaid beside her.
‘Take her to her room,’ she said. ‘Let no one enter but me. No one. The King included.’
The nurse paled. Only a moment ago, her eyes had simmered with the same burning anger as Eurydice’s, but that anger flashed to fear. To disobey the King’s order, would save no one. It would likely result in more deaths, particularly her own. Quivering and drained of colour, she scurried from the room, child in arms.
‘Acrisius.’ Eurydice’s voice quivered. ‘Listen to me now. And listen carefully.’ Before the birth of her daughter, she had been fond of children, as was expected of a woman betrothed to a king. She cooed sufficiently and played chase with her friends’ young offspring, generally enjoying the activities and their company, for a while at least. She could imagine herself having one of her own at some point too, but until that moment had arrived, she could never have anticipated just how much it would change her. But with Danae’s birth, a fire had awoken within her. From the first second that she held her daughter to her breast, smelling her sweet scent, her world had been transformed. All her thoughts were consumed with concern from the child, and her chest burned so fiercely that she laughed at her own audacity to have considered that she had some understanding of love before. This love, this bond, this fire that raged within her, refused to be extinguished, despite whatever prophecies were laid before them.
‘You will not touch a hair on our child’s head,’ she said.
Acrisius glowered down at his wife.
‘Although she will murder me? You heard the Oracle’s words. Danae’s son will bring about my death.’
‘She is but two years old. You expect her to bear a child now? Even if the Oracle’s words are true —’
‘The Oracle’s words are true. She speaks only the truth. The child will be responsible for my death.’
‘Your kin will be responsible. Your grandson will be responsible. The Oracle spoke not of Danae. How do you know there is not some bastard of yours running around in the cornfields now? Every king should have a dozen by now?’
A ridge of fury stretched along Acrisius’ forehead.
‘You know that I have never lain with another woman. That I never will. You are my love, Eurydice.’
Softening, Eurydice lowered her gaze. A familiar throb returned to her chest. This was her weight to bear, not her daughter’s. If only she could have provided Acrisius with an heir, with a son, he would never have found himself at the mercy of the Oracle’s tongue. She stepped forwards and clasped her hands around her husband’s.
‘I understand your fears, My King. I do. But she is a baby. She can no more bear a son than you and I lay a hen’s egg.’
‘But she will.’
‘Then, at that age, we will speak of it again. But not until that age.’
‘Eurydice ...’
‘Not until that time, Acrisius. Not until that time.’
That time came when she was fourteen years old.
Eurydice and Acrisius had grown apart, each unable to conceal their harboured thoughts about their daughter. Eurydice’s thoughts were ones of fear and love; Acrisius’ were of fear alone. Danae had grown. Free-spirited, she would race along the shoreline with the local children, catching crabs on lines with fetid bait. While most young ladies of her age and upbringing kept their faces veiled in public or sheltered themselves indoors, learning the skills of weaving and flower arranging, she pilfered bread and fruit from the palace kitchen and handed them out among the beggars and the poor she saw on the streets. With her golden hair and azure eyes, she possessed a beauty that caused chills to crystalize down the length of Acrisius’ spine. It was not a beauty that could be tamed, he realized. Not a beauty that would become muted or dulled over time. Therefore, it was, in his opinion, a beauty that had to be confined.
‘You cannot place her in a dungeon!’ Eurydice threw her hands into the air, spilling a platter of grapes and sour apples. Her temper tended to get the better of her
